By: Callan Latham

If we could be quiet in the small spaces,
maybe they would make excuses for us.
Our bodies, forgiven only once in a while.
We look in the mirror, see dualities of ourselves
and ask them to break. I like the glass between us.

My fingers turn purple in the cold. I think of it
as an invited bruise. Your lips stay blue in the
pool, call it summer. We have learned to be apart
from each other. I haven’t touched you since the time
you said goodbye to me, my hands in yours
through the car window. I watch you go,
feel the pull start again.

I water the plants when I don’t forget.
Some have drunk up the sun, the roses
crumple before they can even bloom.
I think about the thing inside me.
Any soft organ, ready to break.

We would like to fall apart. Every other day,
we become too tired to hold our heads up.
I can’t fathom you other than how I have
reached for you. Bodies, punctuated by
night, by something beyond an end.